Blood of a Champion
by Branwhin
Summary: Begins when Dovahkiin first comes to Solitude, and continues from there. Spoilers for main questline, Mage's Guild, Dawnguard, Hearthfire. Rating for violence and adult stuff in later chapters. Definite leanings in spots toward Hurt/Comfort. Male!Dunmer!Dovahkiin
1. Chapter 1 - Jordis

Jordis Sword-Maiden's Journal

_Author note: Here goes, first fic! At first this was a bit of an experiment on my part - to tell parts of Dovahkiin's story from outside points of view. Later bits will include POV from Our Hero (I do like my Dovahkiin), and be in third person. Bethesda ... you rock. Thank you for this marvelous playground! (Alas! 'section' breaks are very challenging.)_

An interesting newcomer at Court today. We do not see many Dark Elves in Solitude. 'Ashborn' indeed, though Elisif would be mortified if I said that aloud. I might have thought that hawkish, angular face handsome, if as haughtily aloof as any mer. But he's GRAY, hair and skin both, and those red eyes give me the shivers. A dandy like all the others with his lofty manners and oddly resonant voice, it seems, asking Elisif what she thinks of his outfit. He likely padded the shoulders.

Short, too – no taller than I am, maybe a bit shorter. She did say later that he was very kind when he asked about Torygg. But who has a Khajiit following him about?

No matter. Beirand has finished making my new sword! I have to go pick it up from him, and show that Ivarus Etius up at Castle Dour a true daughter of Skyrim. He's cute, for an Imperial. And I wonder if Mrs Morrard would show me a bit more about Alchemy?

** (a day or two later)

Wolfskull Cave. We all thought Varnius Junius was full of the usual superstitious nonsense. Necromancers, trying to resurrect Potema! Perhaps this Dark Elf is not the dandy he first appeared; he seemed no worse for the experience. This time, though he had thoughtfully disarmed himself (his follower did not, but what can you expect of a Khajiit?) and a sparkling circlet replaced his helmet, he wore a fancy set of Elven armour. It looks right on him, as Taarie's creation had not. Still cannot get used to red eyes, and I'm still sure he's got padding in there to make him look bigger.

He also addressed himself to Elisif first, before speaking to Falk. A nice touch. Martyn Alandu is his name. Pretty common name for Imperials these days, Martin, I've met three; but never seen a mer with it. Apparently managed to impress Balgruuf, though.

And not in the slightest concerned with Erikur's opinion of himself. That just about made me giggle. Erikur cornered him about his credentials or some such nonsense, to be wonderfully taken aback that Sera Alandu (I think that's how the Dark Elves say it) is Thane of Whiterun. Guess it isn't surprising, Balgruuf's already got one Dark Elf.

** (the next day)

There was a dragon attack between here and Dragon Bridge. They say Thane Martyn not only killed the thing, but absorbed its soul. THAT is the Dragonborn? I saw the dragon's bones; Ivarus and I went out to help with the cleanup. It was huge! Where the flesh and scales went I can't say. There were burned bushes all over, and even scorch marks halfway up the cliffs. Ivarus doesn't for a minute believe that a mer can be Dragonborn; only the Imperials, he says, as if Talos wasn't a Nord at all. I will be certain to take that out of his hide – and tickle his bare knees – next time he starts grousing about the cold.

I heard Sybille Stentor telling Elisif that Thane Martyn is a Mage, if only an Apprentice. So he was not unarmed at all. And he cannot be completely DIS-armed wherever he goes, unless they bind and gag him. If he is Dragonborn, he could do what Ulfric did. Elisif is not afraid of him; but we will be watching, next time he is in Solitude. That said, that he's a Dark Elf must be giving Ulfric Stormcloak fits.

** (some weeks later)

Well, and it seems I'll be getting to know Thane Martyn better now; he's Thane of Haafingar, as well as Whiterun. And Hjaalmarch. I've been appointed his housecarl! He's bought Proudspire Manor, too. It's a beautiful place, or will be once I've gotten the cobwebs cleared out.

It's odd. I'm going between pride and delight that Elisif thinks so highly of me, to annoyance that I'm going to be cleaning and cooking for a man. This is one reason I thought to become a warrior, after all. I hate it. Still, a great honour and I'll just have to think of it as such. I do hope Thane Martyn will take me out adventuring; he _still_ has that Khajiit following him.

I miss Ivarus. They sent him to Falkreath, of all places, with a dour shrew of a Captain who had half her face burned off at Helgen. They call her a hero, but...

** (a bit later)

Kharjo is the Khajiit; he's actually really funny, and good with a blade. Who knew? He tells fascinating stories, too. And leaves shed fur all over the house.

Thane Martyn is a mystery. He has the manners of a nobleman. His accent is pure Cyrodiil, Ivarus told me, not a trace of Morrowind there. A nobleman's stern demeanour, also. Sure is quiet about himself, I hardly know anything about him.

He'll come home, usually plodding under the weight of all the gear he's looted, drop some of it off and offer me my pick of it – very nice of him, I'll admit – and then go upstairs and fall into bed. Then he'll be off the next morning, sometimes even before I'm up, and I won't see him for several weeks.

Giraud Gemane over at the College calls him 'doom-driven.' Maybe that's it.

_(I switched after this point to third-person; it just seemed to flow better. Please tell me what you think!)_


	2. Chapter 2 - Careful what you wish for

_(Here's where I switched to third-person. Still from Jordis' perspective, but from here on Martyn will have his chapters also. I found it much more fun that way, and I hope you do also)_

Thane Martyn thanked her gravely as he helped balance the last of the harvested dragon scales in her pack. His armour had taken quite a beating, but thanks to a potion or two during the fight and a Restoration spell afterward, he was unhurt.

She kept expecting that she would feel different, after she had breathed in the swirling currents of power surrounding her Thane just a few minutes ago. But if Magicka this was, it had only affected him. He was tired, she thought, but how could one tell if a Dark Elf had dark circles under his eyes? He had only asked her to come with him two days ago, and had been at Proudspire so rarely since he had bought it that she scarcely knew him. He assured her that Kharjo was still alive and well, though he was silent on what had parted them.

Dragonborn. Without question now, even could she have continued to doubt with all the bones and scales he brought back from his adventures. He was certainly quieter about it than any Nord would be! More reserved all around than she ever thought would be accepted by the Bards' College, even on a trial basis until he retrieved Olaf's Verse. That was where they were headed, until...

"Didn't quite believe it, did you?" he asked suddenly, with a wry twist to his mouth. Was he angry? After a moment he chuckled. "It's all right. It took Balgruuf's men a good few minutes to convince me I should try Shouting; thought I'd make an ass of myself, even with all of … that."

He scanned the road ahead and behind with keen eyes before tugging a strap straight over a bit of curled metal and giving her a look. That had to be digging at him, but he showed no sign of it. The only concession he had made to the heat of battle was to leave his helmet off. His iron-gray hair swept back from a peak on his forehead to just brush his shoulders, bits of it fluffing out over the tips of his ears. "Ready? We should still be in Morthal by sundown."

Quite the speed on him for someone a bit shorter than she; and unflagging endurance besides. She had not expected either of a Mage. Nords, she was finding, could be pride-full to the point of foolishness – even as they despised the Thalmor for their arrogance.

They had not passed through the marsh on their way out of Solitude; or at the very least the wind had been blowing the other way. Morthal had a damp reek to it. Even the fire smouldering in the hut mid-village smelled dank. The woman behind the counter though, whom he introduced as Lami, had a sunny smile and cheerful greeting for him.

"Peat moss," said Thane Martyn when she went a bit closer to the hearth, trying to discern the difference. He would have been standing IN the fire were he not concerned for the fur lining his boots. She wondered if she should tease him as she did Ivarus moaning about the cold. He was so cursed hard to read!

The terrified scream outside caught them all three by surprise; moments later Jordis caught the first unguarded expression she had ever seen on Thane Martyn's face – pure exasperated fury – when the hut shook with an ear-splitting roar.

Usually so carefully courteous, _this_ time he did not bother with niceties, like opening the door. "FUS... RO!" he Shouted instead in a controlled exhalation – more bark than bellow, save that it still made Jordis' bones rattle and the door explode outward off its hinges.

Everyone else was bellowing or shrieking when they charged outside drawing weapons, her Thane also clapping his helmet back on. The dragon sat silent on a rooftop; a huge monster silhouetted against the setting sun, its head drawn back on its sinuous neck as though shocked. But it was not silent for long. Thane Martyn said their Shouts are words in their language, much as a Mage gestures with his hands, but she could not hear anything, see anything but a terrible gout of flame that missed her by a handsbreadth.

In the middle when the blinding intensity lessened stood Thane Martyn, calmly loosing arrow after arrow even as his skin blistered in the heat, until the dragon launched itself skyward. He seemed to _know_ where it would next appear; now she saw him gathering his strength to meet the beast Voice for Voice.

The few bandits and beasts they had met along the way he had dispatched with either bolts of fire or Forgeheart, his fiery glass mace. So it came as a surprise when her Thane answered the dragon's roar with a mighty blizzard.

"FO … KRAH DIIN!"

Between that and everyone else peppering its hide with arrows, it was not long before the great dragon was unable to fly. It landed so heavily just shy of the bridge that chips of stone flew; two of the Jarl's guardsmen scrambled out of the way. One of them ended up on his rump in the water, cursing mightily as he left his bow afloat and hauled out his mace.

Her own bow lay discarded on the step behind her; this new sword her Thane gifted her was a joy, carving deeply into the dragon's wing joint as though it were a mere chicken. Thane Martyn, bloodied but graceful as ever, now wielded an elegant blade in a style she had never seen before. Lightning crackled along its slender length in the gathering gloom. It seemed too frail for its purpose but it struck harder than all the others. His breath coming harshly now, he swiftly cast bolt after bolt of fire right at the dragon's snout. Victory! Her heart sang.

With a last great roar the beast lunged; there was a sickening crunch amidst the fire and a horrible scream that cut off midway. Jordis was tossed aside by the beast's thrashing; but for the helmet sternly given her that morning she might have been seriously injured.

Someone had struck the dragon a death-blow. It seemed to catch fire from within; the men lowered their weapons, panting one and all. Now familiar silvery-blue and golden light swirled all around, centered upon … the blood-soaked figure in its jaws. Her Thane!

This time he cried out at the onslaught; or perhaps it was the pain of his wounds, which were far worse than before. The great beast's last bite had pierced him through, his blood – red as any Nord's – seeping into the dirt beneath him. As Jordis staggered to her feet his left hand flexed feebly; a mere golden glimmer was all he could summon, barely visible even in twilight.

Dizzy as she was two others reached him before she did; thank Arkay one of them had a familiar-looking red bottle with her, and a large one.

"Be still, Dragonborn," she commanded in a voice that brooked no nonsense, and ignored the mud to kneel at his side. Only then, as a guardsman brought a wavering torch close, did Jordis recognize Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. The woman beside her was her daughter.

Thane Martyn coughed then, his whole body twitching with the pain of it, and tried to speak; the red froth staining his lips near stopped her heart. Here lay the hope of Skyrim – no, the hope of Tamriel – dying at the jaws of the very creature he was supposed to save them from.

"Be still, I said! Where are your manners, young Thane?" Heartless wench. The Jarl's gaze pierced her then as though she had heard the thought; it occurred to Jordis uneasily that perhaps she had.

But... "Say something, girl!" ordered she instead. A commotion down by the mill across the bridge caught her eye; a running figure, robes kilted up above his knees and an unearthly white glow above him. Never had she been so glad to see a Mage in her life!

"Help comes, My Thane," she said to Martyn, not knowing if he could hear her, or anyone anymore.

"There now," said Jarl Idgrod testily. "There. Now will you stop fretting? Little sip – no, don't guzzle, not with your innards all askew."

Jordis had not considered that. Nor that he might fret – over her? The Jarl directed her and a man named Ejolfr to stand at the dead dragon's head, as the puffing Mage flexed both his hands and produced the familiar robust gleam. "Restoration is not my strongest School, Idgrod," he said in a surprisingly rough voice, "best you be ready with the rest of that potion. Or two." Jordis did not think they were meant to hear that last; Ejolfr shifted his feet nervously. One could almost taste the uncertainty and fear in the air, quite apart from the tang of the marsh. They knew.

Martyn screamed in agony when they heaved the foul dragon's jaws apart – but Falion's casting and the Jarl's potions soon had him whole again, if shaky and haggard. He looked as though he could happily lay there in the mud until Loredas came again, but she could tell that he felt the charged atmosphere also. He reached for her hand; despite the Jarl's clucking she bent down to help him rise. Once upright he retrieved his sword from the dragon's eye socket. Even gripped as he was, he had slain it.

He raised the blade high, and the people cheered him. She thought only she and the Jarl noted his trembling. Then he saluted Jarl Idgrod, who made a speech as pretty as any heard in the Blue Palace, and had her Steward hand Jordis a hefty pouch that clinked.

Thane Martyn was much steadier now; he gave the Jarl a graceful bow, Jordis a thump on the shoulder, and began heading for the inn amongst the murmuring townsfolk. Before she turned to follow the Jarl stepped right up close and murmured "Destiny is a heavy thing, child. His rest will not be easy."

Jordis thought otherwise; she had never been so close to death as that, but the one time she had been healed of severe injuries she had slept like a log.

When she reached the inn it certainly seemed he was well enough. He grimaced at the muck and the rents in his armour, muttering about the lack of a smithy, before stepping into the room they would share and washing hastily in the hot water brought him by a simpering young woman. When he emerged he wore a richly quilted set of fine clothes in a blue that suited his complexion perfectly. These, Jordis thought privately, fit him MUCH better than Taarie's creation ever had.

Many of the townsfolk tried their hardest to ply him with drink; he ate sparingly and drank even less. There were, of course, several repetitions of "The Dragonborn Comes." How that song used to thrill her! And now she was sitting next to him as he nodded politely and saluted each singer. Even the Orc.

Eventually Thane Martyn rose and bid the common room good night – not before time. He had begun shifting a little in his seat, as one does on long watches when trying to keep awake. Once in their room he undressed in silence and went straight to bed, wrapping himself in several blankets. Still uncertain, Jordis kept her teasing to herself. And her admiration. The more fool her – that was _not_ padding in the shoulders at all. His colouration might be off-putting and he had scarcely any hair on his chest, but he was as big as a Nord!

She woke in the dark of night. For some time she lay there wondering why. With a shrug she began to turn over when there came a shifting across the room, an indrawn breath that was almost a gasp. The last candles guttered on the table, but there was light enough.

Thane Martyn lay dream-gripped, one arm thrown over his face and both fists clenched; a sheen of sweat covered him where the blankets had slipped. As Jordis sat up he muttered something hoarsely in a language she did not understand. Shivers ran down her spine when bright sparks danced on his lips. Draconic. Waking a warrior after a desperate battle is always dangerous; Jordis herself had nearly run Ivarus through once after they'd gone outside the walls for a picnic and got ambushed by sabrecats.

"My Thane?" she called softly, wondering if poking him with the broom would be a better idea than getting close enough to touch him. Then she realized it might not matter. Mage and Dragonborn...

Sure enough when she got close and repeated her hail his hands unclenched and began to gleam; the one came down and his eyes flew open. Shor's bones, those eyes!

"Easy," she murmured, glad that her voice did not shake; greatly daring, she reached out to enfold his left hand in hers. "Thane Martyn, it's Jordis." Oh, Arkay, she could feel the heat; she always had wondered how Mages could hold fire in their hands without being burned...

"Lyd … wha?" His voice was husky, as though his throat hurt; in another beat he came to himself. "Jordis. I … I didn't wake you?" The spells dissipated from his hands, and his head dropped back to the pillow.

"No," she answered him, not entirely untruthfully; he had not cried out loudly, or half the inn would be in here. What dire visions made him tremble so?

Suddenly he gave a convulsive shiver and hauled the blankets back up. "Brr," said he, while the hand she still held felt like a furnace. Was he ill? On the pretext of rising she brushed his shoulder with her other hand. Steel sheathed in skin as soft as a babe's, but... "Sweet Arkay, you're burning! Here, my Thane, let me..."

He caught her arm before she could more than turn to put on a robe, that hand as feverishly hot as the other. "I'm Dunmer." A pause. "Lydia thought the same once."

He could warm an entire tent by himself! "If that's being Dunmer, how are you cold?"

"How are you _not_ cold?" he muttered sourly. But Jordis thought she saw the hint of an ironic smile and grinned; he rewarded her with a slightly wider smile. Still, he did not look good.

"What troubles you?"

Thane Martyn gave her a long, measuring look; she thought he would be angry, but instead she felt his hands relax. He almost seemed to wilt.

"I thought I'd overdone the celebrating, the first time there were two in a day," he finally admitted, letting go her arm long enough to rub at his temple. "We were just outside Riften, and the guards..."

"It hurts when you … take a dragon's soul?" Yet another thing Jordis had not considered. She had not thought herself a fool before today, at least no more than anybody else.

A crease appeared between his eyes. "More pressure than pain; they're … too big for my head, almost, until they settle down. It passes soon enough."

Well, he was hurting now. At least she might have an idea, here; she reached for a tunic and grabbed the cloth on the table.

A half-shrug and a grin sufficed to quell the innkeeper's curious look; Jordis made sure she didn't notice that on her return the cloth was full of fresh snow.

Her bare feet made no noise on the worn floor boards, else she was sure she would not have seen him look so pained. He certainly lowered his hands and rearranged his expression quickly enough when she cleared her throat softly. After what he had done in her sight, did he truly believe she'd think him a coward, or weak? She was not that great a fool.

"This should help," she told him, proffering the snow. He gave her a look at once curious and wary. On the strength of the curiosity she knelt at his side and laid the cloth on his brow, trying not to grin at his suppressed gasp and sour face.

Sweaty Dark Elf, she noted some time later, smelled different from sweaty human.

** (Martyn)

"No less unpleasant," he chuckled softly with a curl of his lip; she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. "And don't apologize – I think this might actually be helping."

The dreadful pressure behind his eyes did seem to be easing. Martyn wasn't sure _why_ his dreams after a fight with a dragon were always so fraught; he wasn't sure he wanted to truly consider the implications of being a living soul gem. It was, at the very least, uncomfortable.

"Not sure why I didn't think of that," he observed as a way to break the silence. Poor Jordis was red as a sunset. And sitting on the floor in the cold draughts without so much as a shiver, wearing only a brief tunic. Best not to think of that.

Jordis, it seemed, had as kind a heart as Kharjo had; perhaps he wouldn't miss the Khajiit as much as he'd thought.

"You're not a Nord," she pointed out impishly; but he noted a hesitation there. She was not certain of him yet. Fair enough, he had not been certain of her either, until now.

He chuckled and propped himself up on one elbow, but lay down again with a mutter when the movement let a whisper of cold air creep under the blankets. "At least I'm already blue … Nord or no, you're going to _turn_ blue in a bit."

As he'd hoped, she laughed. "You're more gray than blue. I'm hardly chilly at all," she insisted as she rose, giving his shoulder a gentle pat before heading back to bed.

Lydia, alas, had been certain of him from their first meeting, and nothing had changed her not-quite-openly scornful attitude until the day she'd died. Courageous as anyone could possibly ask for, as he had reported to Balgruuf, but hardly a comfortable situation. Irileth had given him a shrewdly sympathetic look that suggested she had known.

Martyn shook his head briskly to dispel the unpleasant thoughts, lay the cloth on the table with a smile, and rolled over to sleep for what remained of the night.


	3. Chapter 3 - A Respite Less than Restful

_(Here's where I switched to third-person. Still from Jordis' perspective, but from here on Martyn will have his chapters also. I found it much more fun that way, and I hope you do also)_

Thane Martyn thanked her gravely as he helped balance the last of the harvested dragon scales in her pack. His armour had taken quite a beating, but thanks to a potion or two during the fight and a Restoration spell afterward, he was unhurt.

She kept expecting that she would feel different, after she had breathed in the swirling currents of power surrounding her Thane just a few minutes ago. But if Magicka this was, it had only affected him. He was tired, she thought, but how could one tell if a Dark Elf had dark circles under his eyes? He had only asked her to come with him two days ago, and had been at Proudspire so rarely since he had bought it that she scarcely knew him. He assured her that Kharjo was still alive and well, though he was silent on what had parted them.

Dragonborn. Without question now, even could she have continued to doubt with all the bones and scales he brought back from his adventures. He was certainly quieter about it than any Nord would be! More reserved all around than she ever thought would be accepted by the Bards' College, even on a trial basis until he retrieved Olaf's Verse. That was where they were headed, until...

"Didn't quite believe it, did you?" he asked suddenly, with a wry twist to his mouth. Was he angry? After a moment he chuckled. "It's all right. It took Balgruuf's men a good few minutes to convince me I should try Shouting; thought I'd make an ass of myself, even with all of … that."

He scanned the road ahead and behind with keen eyes before tugging a strap straight over a bit of curled metal and giving her a look. That had to be digging at him, but he showed no sign of it. The only concession he had made to the heat of battle was to leave his helmet off. His iron-gray hair swept back from a peak on his forehead to just brush his shoulders, bits of it fluffing out over the tips of his ears. "Ready? We should still be in Morthal by sundown."

Quite the speed on him for someone a bit shorter than she; and unflagging endurance besides. She had not expected either of a Mage. Nords, she was finding, could be pride-full to the point of foolishness – even as they despised the Thalmor for their arrogance.

They had not passed through the marsh on their way out of Solitude; or at the very least the wind had been blowing the other way. Morthal had a damp reek to it. Even the fire smouldering in the hut mid-village smelled dank. The woman behind the counter though, whom he introduced as Lami, had a sunny smile and cheerful greeting for him.

"Peat moss," said Thane Martyn when she went a bit closer to the hearth, trying to discern the difference. He would have been standing IN the fire were he not concerned for the fur lining his boots. She wondered if she should tease him as she did Ivarus moaning about the cold. He was so cursed hard to read!

The terrified scream outside caught them all three by surprise; moments later Jordis caught the first unguarded expression she had ever seen on Thane Martyn's face – pure exasperated fury – when the hut shook with an ear-splitting roar.

Usually so carefully courteous, _this_ time he did not bother with niceties, like opening the door. "FUS... RO!" he Shouted instead in a controlled exhalation – more bark than bellow, save that it still made Jordis' bones rattle and the door explode outward off its hinges.

Everyone else was bellowing or shrieking when they charged outside drawing weapons, her Thane also clapping his helmet back on. The dragon sat silent on a rooftop; a huge monster silhouetted against the setting sun, its head drawn back on its sinuous neck as though shocked. But it was not silent for long. Thane Martyn said their Shouts are words in their language, much as a Mage gestures with his hands, but she could not hear anything, see anything but a terrible gout of flame that missed her by a handsbreadth.

In the middle when the blinding intensity lessened stood Thane Martyn, calmly loosing arrow after arrow even as his skin blistered in the heat, until the dragon launched itself skyward. He seemed to _know_ where it would next appear; now she saw him gathering his strength to meet the beast Voice for Voice.

The few bandits and beasts they had met along the way he had dispatched with either bolts of fire or Forgeheart, his fiery glass mace. So it came as a surprise when her Thane answered the dragon's roar with a mighty blizzard.

"FO … KRAH DIIN!"

Between that and everyone else peppering its hide with arrows, it was not long before the great dragon was unable to fly. It landed so heavily just shy of the bridge that chips of stone flew; two of the Jarl's guardsmen scrambled out of the way. One of them ended up on his rump in the water, cursing mightily as he left his bow afloat and hauled out his mace.

Her own bow lay discarded on the step behind her; this new sword her Thane gifted her was a joy, carving deeply into the dragon's wing joint as though it were a mere chicken. Thane Martyn, bloodied but graceful as ever, now wielded an elegant blade in a style she had never seen before. Lightning crackled along its slender length in the gathering gloom. It seemed too frail for its purpose but it struck harder than all the others. His breath coming harshly now, he swiftly cast bolt after bolt of fire right at the dragon's snout. Victory! Her heart sang.

With a last great roar the beast lunged; there was a sickening crunch amidst the fire and a horrible scream that cut off midway. Jordis was tossed aside by the beast's thrashing; but for the helmet sternly given her that morning she might have been seriously injured.

Someone had struck the dragon a death-blow. It seemed to catch fire from within; the men lowered their weapons, panting one and all. Now familiar silvery-blue and golden light swirled all around, centered upon … the blood-soaked figure in its jaws. Her Thane!

This time he cried out at the onslaught; or perhaps it was the pain of his wounds, which were far worse than before. The great beast's last bite had pierced him through, his blood – red as any Nord's – seeping into the dirt beneath him. As Jordis staggered to her feet his left hand flexed feebly; a mere golden glimmer was all he could summon, barely visible even in twilight.

Dizzy as she was two others reached him before she did; thank Arkay one of them had a familiar-looking red bottle with her, and a large one.

"Be still, Dragonborn," she commanded in a voice that brooked no nonsense, and ignored the mud to kneel at his side. Only then, as a guardsman brought a wavering torch close, did Jordis recognize Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. The woman beside her was her daughter.

Thane Martyn coughed then, his whole body twitching with the pain of it, and tried to speak; the red froth staining his lips near stopped her heart. Here lay the hope of Skyrim – no, the hope of Tamriel – dying at the jaws of the very creature he was supposed to save them from.

"Be still, I said! Where are your manners, young Thane?" Heartless wench. The Jarl's gaze pierced her then as though she had heard the thought; it occurred to Jordis uneasily that perhaps she had.

But... "Say something, girl!" ordered she instead. A commotion down by the mill across the bridge caught her eye; a running figure, robes kilted up above his knees and an unearthly white glow above him. Never had she been so glad to see a Mage in her life!

"Help comes, My Thane," she said to Martyn, not knowing if he could hear her, or anyone anymore.

"There now," said Jarl Idgrod testily. "There. Now will you stop fretting? Little sip – no, don't guzzle, not with your innards all askew."

Jordis had not considered that. Nor that he might fret – over her? The Jarl directed her and a man named Ejolfr to stand at the dead dragon's head, as the puffing Mage flexed both his hands and produced the familiar robust gleam. "Restoration is not my strongest School, Idgrod," he said in a surprisingly rough voice, "best you be ready with the rest of that potion. Or two." Jordis did not think they were meant to hear that last; Ejolfr shifted his feet nervously. One could almost taste the uncertainty and fear in the air, quite apart from the tang of the marsh. They knew.

Martyn screamed in agony when they heaved the foul dragon's jaws apart – but Falion's casting and the Jarl's potions soon had him whole again, if shaky and haggard. He looked as though he could happily lay there in the mud until Loredas came again, but she could tell that he felt the charged atmosphere also. He reached for her hand; despite the Jarl's clucking she bent down to help him rise. Once upright he retrieved his sword from the dragon's eye socket. Even gripped as he was, he had slain it.

He raised the blade high, and the people cheered him. She thought only she and the Jarl noted his trembling. Then he saluted Jarl Idgrod, who made a speech as pretty as any heard in the Blue Palace, and had her Steward hand Jordis a hefty pouch that clinked.

Thane Martyn was much steadier now; he gave the Jarl a graceful bow, Jordis a thump on the shoulder, and began heading for the inn amongst the murmuring townsfolk. Before she turned to follow the Jarl stepped right up close and murmured "Destiny is a heavy thing, child. His rest will not be easy."

Jordis thought otherwise; she had never been so close to death as that, but the one time she had been healed of severe injuries she had slept like a log.

When she reached the inn it certainly seemed he was well enough. He grimaced at the muck and the rents in his armour, muttering about the lack of a smithy, before stepping into the room they would share and washing hastily in the hot water brought him by a simpering young woman. When he emerged he wore a richly quilted set of fine clothes in a blue that suited his complexion perfectly. These, Jordis thought privately, fit him MUCH better than Taarie's creation ever had.

Many of the townsfolk tried their hardest to ply him with drink; he ate sparingly and drank even less. There were, of course, several repetitions of "The Dragonborn Comes." How that song used to thrill her! And now she was sitting next to him as he nodded politely and saluted each singer. Even the Orc.

Eventually Thane Martyn rose and bid the common room good night – not before time. He had begun shifting a little in his seat, as one does on long watches when trying to keep awake. Once in their room he undressed in silence and went straight to bed, wrapping himself in several blankets. Still uncertain, Jordis kept her teasing to herself. And her admiration. The more fool her – that was _not_ padding in the shoulders at all. His colouration might be off-putting and he had scarcely any hair on his chest, but he was as big as a Nord!

She woke in the dark of night. For some time she lay there wondering why. With a shrug she began to turn over when there came a shifting across the room, an indrawn breath that was almost a gasp. The last candles guttered on the table, but there was light enough.

Thane Martyn lay dream-gripped, one arm thrown over his face and both fists clenched; a sheen of sweat covered him where the blankets had slipped. As Jordis sat up he muttered something hoarsely in a language she did not understand. Shivers ran down her spine when bright sparks danced on his lips. Draconic. Waking a warrior after a desperate battle is always dangerous; Jordis herself had nearly run Ivarus through once after they'd gone outside the walls for a picnic and got ambushed by sabrecats.

"My Thane?" she called softly, wondering if poking him with the broom would be a better idea than getting close enough to touch him. Then she realized it might not matter. Mage and Dragonborn...

Sure enough when she got close and repeated her hail his hands unclenched and began to gleam; the one came down and his eyes flew open. Shor's bones, those eyes!

"Easy," she murmured, glad that her voice did not shake; greatly daring, she reached out to enfold his left hand in hers. "Thane Martyn, it's Jordis." Oh, Arkay, she could feel the heat; she always had wondered how Mages could hold fire in their hands without being burned...

"Lyd … wha?" His voice was husky, as though his throat hurt; in another beat he came to himself. "Jordis. I … I didn't wake you?" The spells dissipated from his hands, and his head dropped back to the pillow.

"No," she answered him, not entirely untruthfully; he had not cried out loudly, or half the inn would be in here. What dire visions made him tremble so?

Suddenly he gave a convulsive shiver and hauled the blankets back up. "Brr," said he, while the hand she still held felt like a furnace. Was he ill? On the pretext of rising she brushed his shoulder with her other hand. Steel sheathed in skin as soft as a babe's, but... "Sweet Arkay, you're burning! Here, my Thane, let me..."

He caught her arm before she could more than turn to put on a robe, that hand as feverishly hot as the other. "I'm Dunmer." A pause. "Lydia thought the same once."

He could warm an entire tent by himself! "If that's being Dunmer, how are you cold?"

"How are you _not_ cold?" he muttered sourly. But Jordis thought she saw the hint of an ironic smile and grinned; he rewarded her with a slightly wider smile. Still, he did not look good.

"What troubles you?"

Thane Martyn gave her a long, measuring look; she thought he would be angry, but instead she felt his hands relax. He almost seemed to wilt.

"I thought I'd overdone the celebrating, the first time there were two in a day," he finally admitted, letting go her arm long enough to rub at his temple. "We were just outside Riften, and the guards..."

"It hurts when you … take a dragon's soul?" Yet another thing Jordis had not considered. She had not thought herself a fool before today, at least no more than anybody else.

A crease appeared between his eyes. "More pressure than pain; they're … too big for my head, almost, until they settle down. It passes soon enough."

Well, he was hurting now. At least she might have an idea, here; she reached for a tunic and grabbed the cloth on the table.

A half-shrug and a grin sufficed to quell the innkeeper's curious look; Jordis made sure she didn't notice that on her return the cloth was full of fresh snow.

Her bare feet made no noise on the worn floor boards, else she was sure she would not have seen him look so pained. He certainly lowered his hands and rearranged his expression quickly enough when she cleared her throat softly. After what he had done in her sight, did he truly believe she'd think him a coward, or weak? She was not that great a fool.

"This should help," she told him, proffering the snow. He gave her a look at once curious and wary. On the strength of the curiosity she knelt at his side and laid the cloth on his brow, trying not to grin at his suppressed gasp and sour face.

Sweaty Dark Elf, she noted some time later, smelled different from sweaty human.

** (Martyn)

"No less unpleasant," he chuckled softly with a curl of his lip; she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. "And don't apologize – I think this might actually be helping."

The dreadful pressure behind his eyes did seem to be easing. Martyn wasn't sure _why_ his dreams after a fight with a dragon were always so fraught; he wasn't sure he wanted to truly consider the implications of being a living soul gem. It was, at the very least, uncomfortable.

"Not sure why I didn't think of that," he observed as a way to break the silence. Poor Jordis was red as a sunset. And sitting on the floor in the cold draughts without so much as a shiver, wearing only a brief tunic. Best not to think of that.

Jordis, it seemed, had as kind a heart as Kharjo had; perhaps he wouldn't miss the Khajiit as much as he'd thought.

"You're not a Nord," she pointed out impishly; but he noted a hesitation there. She was not certain of him yet. Fair enough, he had not been certain of her either, until now.

He chuckled and propped himself up on one elbow, but lay down again with a mutter when the movement let a whisper of cold air creep under the blankets. "At least I'm already blue … Nord or no, you're going to _turn_ blue in a bit."

As he'd hoped, she laughed. "You're more gray than blue. I'm hardly chilly at all," she insisted as she rose, giving his shoulder a gentle pat before heading back to bed.

Lydia, alas, had been certain of him from their first meeting, and nothing had changed her not-quite-openly scornful attitude until the day she'd died. Courageous as anyone could possibly ask for, as he had reported to Balgruuf, but hardly a comfortable situation. Irileth had given him a shrewdly sympathetic look that suggested she had known.

Martyn shook his head briskly to dispel the unpleasant thoughts, lay the cloth on the table with a smile, and rolled over to sleep for what remained of the night.


	4. Chapter 4 - Journeys and Surprises

Chapter 4 – Journeys and Surprises

_(Sorry about the odd pacing of these updates! Please let me know what you think - thanks so much as always to Linkluvr for the beta-reading)_

Several weeks passed; they traveled more than Jordis ever had before, going everywhere from Markarth to Winterhold.

Martyn was an excellent traveling companion. He did his share of the camp chores without fuss; Jordis would have taken the sabrecat's share, being his housecarl, but he simply did what was needful and smiled at her raised eyebrow.

Her weapons and armour had never been in better condition, nor so comfortable. Martyn had not purchased the suit he wore, but crafted it from ore he had dug himself, and also enchanted it. He was not so familiar with the properties of oricalcum or ebony, but he still made significant improvements to everything he gave her. They spoke of alchemy and gathered ingredients while they traveled.

He had a sense of humour like nothing Jordis had ever encountered. He'd say something in a perfectly prosaic tone of voice, and only later would it occur to her how funny it was. She grew to love his sudden bright grin when she would chuckle, though they were not speaking at all.

Being around so many Mages made her very nervous, until Martyn introduced her to kindly Master Tolfdir. He reminded her of her father's uncle. The golden-skinned Thalmor Ancano made _everyone_ nervous, which she found somehow reassuring.

The great, glowing _thing_ floating in the center of the main chamber also made her uneasy. They had found that beneath Saarthal? Martyn was supposed to go fetch something-or-other. To control it, she thought.

Master Tolfdir, when he was not absorbed in staring at whatever-it-was, came to her with a book.

"Not many in Skyrim have the chance – or the will," he added wearily, "to work closely with the Dunmer, my dear. Have you seen this one?"

It was a slim volume, _Ancestors and the Dunmer._ "No, Magister, I haven't seen it before," said she, and sat down to read it.

Some time later she set it down on the table next to her, blinking. A … _ghost-fence?_ Venerating ancestors was like visiting a Hall of the Dead, she supposed. No harm in that. But she wasn't so certain about having a Hall of the Dead in her house – let alone having the dead talk back.

When she asked Martyn about it later on the road, he looked sheepish and shook his head. "Growing up in Cyrodiil had its advantages, but I didn't learn more than theory about any of that till after we moved. My grandfather's grandparents immigrated from Morrowind centuries ago and never really looked back. Mother's parents were raised in Ebonheart, but she was very little. Still..."

He stopped then and turned to her, his expression suddenly haunted. "We don't know where Father or Grandfather fell – both of them in the Great War. It's … the danger of their being _used_ like that!" He shuddered, and she had to agree. She could not bear to think of any ancestors of hers reduced to shambling Draugr. Martyn recovered his composure swiftly though; after a moment his lips quirked sideways in a half-smile. "They'd have quite a time with Grandfather, mind you."

"Oh?"

"He was a battlemage – and did _not_ appreciate necromancy."

**(Martyn)

From Winterhold they made their way south to Riften. Martyn had more of those tracts to give out; he was embarrassed to have left the duty so long, but he found it absurdly difficult to do. He was running out of people he thought would actually accept the things.

"A septim for your thoughts, my Thane."

Martyn smiled at Jordis, who stood regarding him curiously from where she leaned on a birch. He had long since asked her to call him by name, and she did for the most part; but the title had none of Lydia's bitter edge to it, so he didn't mind.

"Isn't the foliage beautiful? It reminds me of the area just south of the Jerall mountains. _These,_ though, I had never seen before. Exceptionally useful."

"That's scaly pholiota, isn't it? Mrs. Morrard said it grew around here."

"Aye. That and creep cluster will fortify the amount you're able to carry for quite a while."

"Oh, now that is useful," she said, fingering the edges of the bandolier he had made for her. Those were helpful as much for evenly distributing the weight of carried objects as the enchantments on them, he thought, but the insides were much larger somehow than they appeared.

The first person they encountered inside Riften's gates was Bolli; Martyn counted the man's cheerful greeting a good omen, and determined once more to do his best by Lady Mara.

Bersi Honey-Hand was grateful for the missive, and for the loot that Martyn sold to him. That felt good. Hafjorg was less enthusiastic, and Ingun thought he was selling something. Very sad to see in someone so young, but who could blame her for being prematurely jaded?

His inner smile threatened to turn into a scowl when he overheard Maven Black-Briar berating Mjoll. The Nord warrior stood tall, one hand possessively on Grimsever's hilt, apparently not in the least intimidated. But Maven had a disturbing amount of power. Concerned, he approached.

Hmm.

"I trust you have a _reason_ for your interruption?"

"Mara's blessing to you, Sister," he murmured with all the sweetness he could possibly put into his voice, and handed Maven his last missive from the Temple.

Both women stared as though he had gone mad. Martyn fought to keep his lips from twitching, particularly when Aerin ducked around the corner to hide his mirth.

"Excellent," Maven drawled coldly. "I needed some more kindling for my kitchen hearth."

"Was that Maven _Black-Briar?" _Jordis laughed breathlessly, once they were out of public view. "Isn't she a proper snake."

"It's not at all appropriate that I should do that in mockery," Martyn said guiltily when he could speak again for laughing, leaning on the back wall of the Temple, "But gods that felt good."

He did feel good, he realized. A gentle peace settled upon him, as though he stood within Mara's embrace in the temple and had asked for Her blessing – and She had returned it tenfold. It enfolded him like a blanket.

"Well, if anybody needs Mara's blessing, or anybody's, from what I've heard..."

"Mmm. I suppose I ought to go speak to Dinya."

That feeling of grace stuck with him, even when they stepped into the Bee and Barb with Aerin and Mjoll and heard about a dragon menacing the area around Ivarstead. Martyn shook his head. Foolhardy monster, flitting so close to Paarthurnax's domain.

**(Jordis)

"Ivarstead! Isn't that at the base of the Seven Thousand Steps?" Jordis asked him.

After a distracted moment, Martyn nodded. He'd looked … a bit strange since just before they'd stopped into the temple. If she didn't know better she'd say he'd had a tumble in a haystack, but that wasn't quite right either. That sort of thing was more in Dibella's purview.

Though the sudden thought of his powerful arms around her, his intense warmth, was making _her_ warm in a way she never would have expected. She wondered now that she'd ever considered him less than handsome. Were elves' ears as sensitive as she'd heard, and what would it be like? Frantically, she tried to distract herself.

"I would love to see High Hrothgar."

Jordis did wonder as his beatific smile turned mysterious. What exactly was she getting herself into? But the long cross-country run to the little village at the base of the mountain rather dampened her curiosity. They met several bears along the way, and two packs of wolves, arriving near dawn.

Ivarstead was quiet.

"Everything's in order," one guard huffed at Martyn's inquiry, as though he were accusing the man of dereliction.

"Heh. Now I wish we'd taken the time to track down that sabrecat," said he as they walked across the bridge. "Ready for a climb?"

"At least it's steps," she teased him. "I won't be standing at the base of some cliff waiting to catch you, or trying to find my way around when you go scrambling down a slope that would terrify a mountain goat." He laughed.

Martyn quite firmly insisted that she read each of the plaques on the way up; most of it was at least somewhat familiar from her early schooling. She thought he was covertly arranging for a rest.

After seeing Windhelm and the contempt on the faces of its people – Even for the Dragonborn! – she wondered less at his reserve. Nords complained as much and loudly as anybody, but let someone else do it, and he was a milk-drinker. Let alone a Dunmer.

The fortress could not come into sight soon enough, for either of them. Even Jordis was cold; poor Martyn was shaking so he could hardly speak as they stepped within. Kneeling in the main chamber was a bearded man who had to be one of the Greybeards. She quite liked his robes, cleverly crafted to look like scales.

"Master Einarth."

The man got to his feet, spread his hands in greeting and murmured "Dovahkiin."

He murmured, but the world trembled with the strength of it. Jordis staggered a little, and fought not to gape like an idiot. She had dismissed _that _as among the more ridiculous rumours. Martyn had a resonant depth to his voice that nearly rivaled a skald, but he didn't thunder like that!

The Greybeard smiled kindly at her – and silently, thank Talos – but shook his head at the shivering Dunmer beside her. He firmly grabbed Martyn by the elbow and sat him down right next to a fire.

"Would that I had a dovah's hide, some days," Martyn chuckled, grabbing the brazier's rim in a move that would have seared Jordis' hands in moments.

Feeling much better once they had thawed somewhat, they moved into the courtyard.

"So, that is Einarth. Only Arngeir still speaks normally, and I don't see him." His shiver this time couldn't have anything to do with the cold, they were standing right beside a huge fire. "He's implied that keeping ordinary speech is something of a sacrifice – that it keeps him from full understanding of the Thu'um."

Jordis felt a chill. "You're going to need full understanding if you're going to face Alduin."

"I know." He shook himself and looked away. "I would be honoured to introduce you to their leader; he lives higher up. Would you like to stop here?"

The brief stop had refreshed Jordis enough that she shook her head; but not without grave misgivings for the look of the scouring wind on the other side of the arch atop the steps.

"LOK VAH KOOR! We need to be fairly quick; it isn't far. And watch for ice wraiths."

The wind settled, just like that.

"By the gods, why haven't you done that before?" said she without thinking. The storm on the way down from Winterhold had left him so miserably cold she hadn't even been tempted to tease, to say nothing of conditions up here.

"My own comfort is not a true need," he replied a little ways up, drawing breath to Shout again. "I do not hold with all aspects of the Way of the Voice as Arngeir has taught me; but that strikes me as pure arrogance."

Jordis liked that.

Sneaky creatures, ice wraiths; they surprised several of the beasts on the way, one of which had just killed a goat. Finally they emerged into a clear space and Martyn gestured for her to walk up beside him. They sometimes did that in open country.

There was another of the curved walls here, the words barely legible through a coating of windblown snow. Sitting on it...

"Drem Yol Lok," rumbled the figure Jordis had first assumed to be carved, tilting its great head curiously. "Greetings." It made no move to attack; Martyn stood relaxed but … attentive, almost like a soldier at parade rest.

"Drem Yol Lok, Paarthurnax," Martyn rumbled back respectfully, his voice dropping to nearly match the dragon's. _'Kyne called on … __Paarthurnax?__'_ He couldn't possibly be the same being.

She looked further as Martyn introduced him, though. His wing-sails were tattered such that she wondered if he could fly; several of the spikes beneath his chin were broken. And she had not yet seen or heard of a dragon to be so faded. Paarthurnax was very nearly a match for the stone he perched upon. She learned that he had endured all these lonely centuries atop this mountain, as fewer and fewer came to the Graybeards for learning.

They spoke for some time, Martyn apparently continuing to learn the Dragon's language. Jordis did not understand much of it. But their voices were a pleasure to hear – deep and peaceful. Paarthurnax radiated warmth; she had previously attributed that to the heat of battle. Almost, she found herself dozing in the shadow of those great wings.

**(Martyn)

"Ven aak hio," Martyn repeated dutifully; but his eyes drifted to the right. Jordis had settled herself against the curve of the Word-wall under his mentor's wing, quite as though she slept every night next to a creature who could devour her whole. Her face at their meeting had been quite a sight, but she had looked to him and relaxed nearly before he saw her begin the reach for a weapon. The degree of trust in that was a little startling. And almost enough to warm him even on this forsaken mountaintop.

"Recall your attention, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax rumbled, an odd note in his voice. It sounded distinctly like amusement; Martyn felt his cheeks colouring.

"Krosis," he murmured, struggling for words in the language of the dovah. Dragons were not much for unnecessary wording. It was maddening; when Paarthurnax spoke, understanding danced just at the edges of his awareness, as though he knew the words already, but had somehow forgotten them.

"It is so cold," he finally said. "Krah?" Sometimes one used a word common to the Thu'um in conversation – tinvaak – and sometimes not. "I nearly died north of Pale Pass."

Ironic in the extreme, that. He'd come to himself with Ralof of Riverwood vigorously rubbing his shoulders through the blue cloak the Nord had bundled him in. Much to the disgust of his fellows, it turned out; he had been too shaken then to listen much. His leathers had been utterly ruined in the avalanche, his bow broken and sword gone. Ralof was likely dead now, though Martyn had flatly refused to hit the man with his borrowed sword. By the Nine, something had to happen there soon; the entire nation was like a boiling pot with the lid held down.

"Mmm. Dahmaan – remember, she is born to these climes, Dovahkiin, as you are not. I am warm enough that she will take no hurt. But, fahdon, more than the cold has you restless."

Martyn sighed in exasperation as he paced, snow creaking under his boots. "I am _not_ fond of the Thalmor – fools will go the way of the Ayleids even if they do conquer everywhere, and refuse to see it," he finally burst out. "And I _know_ Talos is divine. But I do not believe that Titus Mede is the coward the Stormcloaks would have him, nor that revolt is any solution. The Emperor made the best he could of a hideous situation and, I hope, gave us time to regain our strength. Such as it is, with half the provinces gone."

"How do you know that?" Jordis exclaimed suddenly. "Talos, I mean. By the..." she looked up. "You taught him, didn't you?"

Paarthurnax turned his head to her. She did not flinch, but regarded him with a child's wonder. "I did, young one. Though there were none of my kind save me for him to learn from, his Thu'um was strong. But I am curious, Dovahkiin. You speak with great mulaag – strength of conviction."

"I've told you what I know of the Oblivion Crisis," he began, remembering the rare times Grandfather had spoken of it. The rest he had learned where he could, not least from old Count Indarys; even as young as he was he'd seen the pain it caused. "To open the way to Mankar Camoran's Paradise that he might retrieve the Amulet of Kings, Martin Septim needed four things. The last two were a Great Welkynd Stone and a Great Sigil Stone."

Jordis was looking at him quizzically; doubtless wondering why he'd begun with the LAST two. He smiled at her. She always did pick up on things like that.

"The others are a pair as those were. The blood of a Daedra lord, which was given in the form of Sanguine's Rose … and the blood of a Divine." He waited.

"The gods don't have artifacts as the Daedra do," Jordis began; then her eyes narrowed. "Talos was mortal, once."

"You're quicker than I was," Martyn chuckled ruefully. "Grandfather would have given my ear a tweak for that, had Emperor Martin not confessed to him a similar confusion long ago. Tiber Septim's armour was fetched from where it lay in Sancre Tor. His last descendant later wore it to battle the Daedra outside Bruma."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - called Dovahkiin for the moment, because I can't think of another title.

_(A Christmas present! Thank you so much, those who have favourited or followed my story so far. It's awesome to know you're enjoying it. I would love to hear from people about what they like (or don't like so much), that my writing might improve._

_I play on my PC and thus am able to use mods; I'll mention one here and there._

**(Jordis)

Everyone knew that mer lived longer than men. Most Altmer made a point of rubbing people's noses in it. Martyn's grandfather had died in the Great War, as far as he knew. But...

"Your grandfather was still in fighting shape two hundred years _after_ the Oblivion crisis?" she asked as they began their descent under the brilliant light of the aurora. It was nearly as incredible as meeting Paarthurnax.

Martyn laughed. "No; all of us were worried sick when we discovered his armour was gone. If Father and I had managed to catch up that day, we'd have sat on him. Or tried. I think we'd have ended up tied to a tree somewhere."

The wry amusement in his voice made Jordis chuckle; she still thought of her uncle Rolf as a fearsome warrior, though he could barely fight anymore. She supposed a battlemage didn't need to be able to run very fast, as long as he could paralyze you with a look! So. She'd been very curious how old Martyn was. Somewhere over forty-five, she was certain now. He'd have been at least fifteen if he'd gone a-hunting like that with his father.

Since he was apparently in a talkative mood, she thought to ask about family. For all their travels this was the most he'd spoken of himself. "You told my little cousin you have a sister and a brother. Are they older or younger? What are they like?"

He smiled. "Alfbrith is cute. Melinu is the eldest, and … much upon her prerogatives as such. She lost more than most of us in the move, I think. Aval remembers the big house in Skingrad, but he was only six; you'd like him, and his wife Evanu. They're entirely too young to get married, but that is a different story."

They were almost to the bottom of the great mountain, at least _her_ legs thoroughly spent from the journey, when a shadow swept over the snow. They both jumped and reached for weapons, searching the bright sky, only to grin sheepishly at each other when it proved to be nothing more than a hawk.

"Occasionally I've just had a dragon fly about over my head and roar," said Martyn, " though none of them have ever said anything intelligible. It's gotten so I'm reluctant to attack first – especially since I met Paarthurnax."

"He's _fascinating,_ isn't he?" Her stomach rumbled loudly, putting an end to that line of thought. "I'm famished. Should we stop at Vilemyr Inn here, or cook some of this goat?"

Martyn smiled. "There are bee hives on the other side of the river. If we drive the bears off, we should find quite a treat."

And so they did; they caught one bruin licking a front paw, heedless of the bees buzzing around him. As the sun rose further Jordis made short work of skinning the bear while Martyn dutifully collected the loose pieces of hive – and the bees. She grinned as she always did to see him darting after them, even jumping to reach those trying to fly away.

He firmly cemented the boyish impression then by making a hilarious, sticky mess of himself in gathering the honey; he grinned over at her with a piece of honeycomb in his mouth and she couldn't help laughing. What would the rest of Skyrim think, to see the Dragonborn like this?

"That's going to be awful to get out of your gauntlets."

"Don't care," was the amused reply. He didn't so much raise a wry eyebrow as narrow one eye slightly, but the effect was the same. "Remind me of that later, will you?"

They gorged on more of the sweet stuff after their meal, then sat companionably cleaning armour.

"You're named for Emperor Martin, you've told me that. I didn't realize your grandfather knew him."

"And grieved all his days at the Emperor's death. I don't mind the name now, for all its weight," he mused, staring into the fire. "Martyn Alandu Uvenim … I bear the names of both my grandfather and the one he saw, always, as the _true_ Champion of Cyrodiil."

_Oh. _"Why does that not surprise me?"Battlemage indeed! Sad that the one book she had read concerning the Oblivion Crisis didn't even mention the Champion's name. Something else he had said came back to her. _We were all shaped, one way or another, by the end of the Septim dynasty._ Her Thane more than most, it seemed.

Was he … yes, he _was_ blushing! His cheeks were brick red, the colour reaching all the way back to his ears. She hadn't realized Dunmer did that.

Over the past weeks, from the occasional covert peek at his broad back she had gone to outright looking whenever he turned away, or studying his chiseled Elven features in profile. Where had he come by that scar on his cheek? For her part she never had been one to shriek and cover up at the prospect of a man's eyes on her. But she had never enjoyed the sensation nearly as much as when _he_ was the one looking. And she was certain he did.

And she enjoyed his company for far more than his looks. But how did folk go about catching someone's interest in Cyrodiil? Jordis had heard enough to know that Skyrim's courtships were considered … abrupt, at best. Martyn hadn't said anything while they were at the Temple in Riften. She had no desire to appear too forward, or that she was flinging herself at him for his wealth or status. Besides, Martyn's 'little' brother Aval – supposedly far too young to marry – was doubtless several years older than her twenty-three.

**(Martyn)

It felt good to be sitting here in his shirtsleeves, the fire taking much of the chill from the early morning air. If he were honest with himself, it felt especially good to be sitting across from Jordis. He had not felt able to speak so candidly to anyone since he had left home. Esbern, a little, who reminded him of Master Arvelas back in Cyrodiil; and Paarthurnax. But the dragon was so very _old._ Mortal concerns seemed such trifling things.

The hunt for the few remaining Blades was as active as ever, by his discoveries at the Thalmor Embassy. Hardly a surprise; many of the those initially involved would still be in active service. To what degree they might have pursued the _family_ of a Blade whom they knew had died, he did not know. But that mess at the Embassy had recently earned their enmity a bit more personally.

He felt sometimes that he was dishonouring the memory of his father and grandfather, along with ancestors he had never met, in not using his family name. Thirty years of wary caution and the promise his sister had wrung out of him in those early fearful days still held his tongue, though he'd thought about telling Esbern if the man wouldn't otherwise open his door there in the Ratway. He had best be careful, still.

With Jordis, he felt a … lessening of the relentless tension, the terrible restlessness that had driven him out of Cyrodiil. Grandfather must have felt the same. It had been almost a relief to discover _what_ had been pulling him up here, there outside Whiterun. That he wasn't simply some spoiled brat raised in opulence, then forced to do mostly without. But it would be pleasant to feel able to stay somewhere for more than a day, without being overwhelmed by such a sense of impending disaster that he was unable to sleep.

Jordis was also very pretty, and capable. Her graceful strength made his mouth water, her courage in battle was unmatched; and yet she was as kind as his first love, Nalsie had been. Courtship was laughably brief in Skyrim. So he'd thought, at least, until he'd spoken with Maramal. All he needed to do was put on the Amulet of Mara that sat in his pack, and speak to her with it visible. He was fairly certain she liked him. It was surely a more comfortable situation than his relationship with Lydia had ever been. But how much of assent would be the implied pressure from his position as her Thane? And how would her family respond? At least one was firmly of the opinion that he looked like a weeks-old corpse.

With a sigh he decided that his gauntlets were clean enough and rose to put back on his cuirass. He would have to find another sabrecat soon to replace the lining; the bear pelt was a little _too_ thick and would impede his movement.

**(Jordis)

Jordis wondered, as she finished settling her armour comfortably and put a few final things away, what Martyn was thinking. His expression had gone from a contentment she'd only seen once or twice before, to amused, then wistful, and finally his usual focused stillness.

He did not intend to be so stern, she was sure. Part of it was the ridges around his eyes, casting them into shadow. Their shape made him look as though he were scowling much of the time – and all the childhood monsters under the bed had bright crimson eyes like his, or golden-orange like an Altmer. Jordis was able to read him much more easily now, but most Nords were unwilling to bother.

Still, those he had helped greeted him warmly and thanked him for his kindness. Always quick to dismiss his abilities with Restoration, he was nonetheless ready to Heal whomever he could who was injured or sick – whether by spell or potion.

"Ready?" Jordis shook herself; she'd been standing there thinking, with a buckle still undone.

"Aye."

They surprised a scavenger on the mountain trail back to Whiterun. She hadn't even known the way existed. The man had come across the site of a skirmish and was dressed in an odd mix of Imperial and Stormcloak gear. Martyn, in the lead as was his habit, shook his head sadly and made to pass on the narrow trail. He had made no move to dispute the fellow's gleanings, but the man raised an axe and charged anyhow.

Martyn, no fool, was not unprepared for that. He drew Forgeheart even as he darted to the side and cast a firebolt with his left hand that made the scavenger yelp. Those had seemed to hit rather harder, of late.

Jordis' own swing went wide as her enemy dodged; she was next aware of blinding pain, a struggle to breathe, and a furious roar from Martyn. She tried to get to her feet; moments later she felt strong hands supporting her, and the warm tingle of a Healing spell.

"Hold still," he urged her gently, and held her safe until he was done. It felt wonderful.

"That felt good; thanks," she said and looked around for the scavenger. "Where did he go?"

"I hope there wasn't anybody on the road down there," said Martyn dryly by way of reply; after a moment she laughed.

One more switchback, and Martyn crouched against a tree with a muttered oath. A moment later Jordis saw what he had; a dragon down by old Fort Amol. Lances of lightning and ice streaked toward it, and it replied with a great gust of fire.

"We're too exposed up here," said she. "We should move down into the trees. More room to fight if we need to, and it can't get at us." The idea of dancing about trying to avoid a creature so huge while not falling to her death curdled her stomach.

Martyn nodded; they hastened stealthily down the trail.

A black-robed figure was flung out from behind the wall to land in a broken heap, and then the dragon launched itself into the sky.

Martyn flattened himself against a rotting stump as another followed the first from within the courtyard. The Elven armour that looked so ornate in town blended very well in the woods and would make him difficult to see from any distance.

"Two at once?" Jordis, steel-clad, chose an overhanging rock. Both readied bows.

His expression turned fierce and he held up his free hand. "Hold – those are no honourable citizens. Let them fight each other."

Ruthless – but Jordis had to admit it was practical. She settled in to wait.

**(Martyn)

One of those dragons was an unfamiliar type. It was greener even than a blood dragon, and it did not seem to breathe fire or frost. Nor did it have a blood dragon's large tail-rudder that made them so much more agile in flight than their brethren. It passed overhead, wind buffeting them, and instead Shouted "RAAN MIR TAH!" Martyn's eyes narrowed. He did not know _Tah,_ but animal … loyalty? Allegiance? Did it think itself an outsized Spriggan?

Sure enough, one hapless mage was taken from behind by a sabrecat that glowed faintly green. He would have to make inquiries of Arngeir or Paarthurnax, and keep it in mind were he ever called upon to dispatch a giant.

Across the trail Jordis hissed suddenly; another ensorcelled cat swiped at her, but she smacked its huge paw away with her bow. He shot it from where he crouched, hoping still to avoid the notice of the dragons if they could. At least until they had worn themselves out against the rogues in the fort.

The other dragon swept by above with several ice spikes embedded in its hide. Martyn suddenly felt one pierce his back. He cried out despite himself – it felt … weaker somehow than ordinary ice spikes did, but it still hurt – and turned to see that two of the mages had pursued the dragon, and had now discovered Martyn and Jordis.

"FUS … RO!" A quick bellow staggered those two momentarily. It had better be enough to finish off that cat. The power took longer to build in him than it did in the dov; he did not wish to be without it when...

A blast of fire and wind came from above. It damaged the rogue mages more than it did him, of course; Jordis had exchanged her bow for her sword and now charged them while they flailed about trying to extinguish themselves. The sabrecat's twitching corpse rolled to a stop at his feet.

A bow doing fire damage was less than ideal against this particular dragon, but he didn't have another to hand. He sent one arrow into a rogue instead and switched weapons before the dragon crushed the other in landing, lashing its tail furiously. The odd greenish one leaped aloft from within the courtyard again.

Dragonbane sang in his hand as he charged into the fray, sending a lightning bolt before him. He did not think this one had much fight left. Jordis got on one side of it and he took the other, trying to stay out of range of its teeth – and its tail. Enraged, it buffeted him with a wing, sending him reeling back several steps.

Clever Jordis thought to take advantage while the creature had unbalanced itself; her overhand blow very nearly severed its neck. Martyn recovered his footing and shared a triumphant grin with her. Hers changed to horror just as a lightning bolt nearly knocked him the other way.

"Damn you to the depths of Oblivion!" he roared, spinning – as well as he could with all his limbs twitching – to confront not another rogue mage, but a Thalmor Justiciar. She looked the worse for wear and had only one battered soldier with her. Those, however, were quite enough.

Power swelled behind him, wrapping him in promises of flight and strength. _Dezniidaaz. _Martyn sighed; though most dragons only sought domination or worse, taking a soul into himself would be an … intimate enough act even were the creature's name not attached. It settled into his mind with a tangible weight, next to those whose knowledge he had not yet spent. He threw a fireball at the attacking Thalmor, trying not to let the heady sensation distract him.

Rhythmic wind and a cloud of road-dust enveloped him; the other dragon had apparently finished with the rogue mages. It Shouted from behind him. Martyn did not catch what Words it spoke, but a tide of hideous, rotting _wrongness_ washed over him. It was not the fell reek of undeath – all dust and leather-like skin, the coppery blood-tang of vampires, nor yet the wet rot of Cyrodiil's zombies. This felt of ancient peat, loam and fungus, growing inside him and seeking to burst his flesh.

The pain nearly drove him to his knees until he guzzled a healing potion. It was enough to drop the robed Justiciar; the remaining soldier took one look at him, shimmering with eldritch power among the bones of a fallen dragon, and turned tail.

"Wise decision, Elf," Jordis taunted; she cursed when her arrow was battered aside by the wind of the dragon's wings.

Martyn rose with Dragonbane in hand; the strange dragon felled the fleeing Altmer before he had reached the bridge. It looked ponderous in turning about on the ground, but dragons were far quicker than most believed. By the time Martyn caught up, it was able to turn his strike with a well-timed snap of its jaws.

"What the..." Another gust of raw power caught Martyn by surprise. Too late, a glimpse of scales now flaking to embers in the dense brush beside the river. _**Riikmulrein.**_ The pressure seemed to increase tenfold, beating uncomfortably against his temples. He gave ground, the green dragon pursuing relentlessly. It drew breath again; he had been waiting for that.

"YOL … TOOR!" he Shouted. It drew back, thankfully; the Thu'um reverberated in his head as though someone had struck a bell with a warhammer. Jordis moved in with her shield raised and gave it a sharp smack in the snout when it went to bite her.

"Die, dragon!" she bellowed.

It did not die – not until it had driven them back much of the way to the crossroads. As its wounds grew more apparent Martyn did his utmost to disengage. Jordis was heavily armoured, and quite skilled with the shield she carried. If he faded back he could very well drop it with spell or bow. He was already wishing it would snow; he had no desire to find out what _three_ dragon-souls in so short a time would do to him.

Jordis pressed her attack with all the ferocity he had come to admire in her; she was plainly trying to give him space to withdraw.

This dragon was not interested in accommodating their unspoken tactics – or in fleeing, which for once he would have preferred. Close, now, closer...

Several steel arrows flew from behind him and to his left; the dragon convulsed and fell atop the bones of the first, at the base of the trail to Ivarstead.

"My Thane..."

"I know," he had time to say, that and no more. _**FELMAARKEST!**_ This one felt as though his head would split, if it did not shatter entirely. Who _was_ that back there?

_(That would be the Deadly Dragons mod, one of my favourites; yes you sometimes get three with that one, and Talos help you if one of them can 'recruit' like Felmaarkest the Forest Dragon... hope you all enjoyed it!)_


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